


When I'm Gone

by faintlyfreckled



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Pre-Stanford, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 08:25:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faintlyfreckled/pseuds/faintlyfreckled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night Sam leaves for Stanford, he expects to go unnoticed until morning. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I'm Gone

“Sam, where are you going?” Dean asked, coming in the back door of the little shack John called a house they were holed up in for the time being just as Sam was heading out the front. A bottle of booze was cradled haphazardly in Dean’s hand, his shirt sleeve covering the neck but the rest of the glass bottle was exposed. The label is black and the liquid amber. Sam didn’t even have to look back to know it was a bottle of Jack Daniels.

Sam’s arms and shoulders were packed with nearly everything he owned. It was a little pathetic. A seventeen year old should have acquired more belongings over the years than what could be stuffed in two duffels and his school backpack. Yet, there it was, the fact of life. Sam Winchester’s existence had always been about what they could shove in the backseat or trunk of the Impala. Three grown men roaming aimlessly from state to state like nomads fighting to survive. Like tumbleweeds in the wind. Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in the same bed a week straight before this little stint and they never knew how long they’d stay.

“School.” Sam stated simply, responding to Dean’s question without looking back at his brother’s obviously confused expression. His fingers were clasped tightly around the doorknob but suddenly Dean’s mere presence feet away had a hold on him, keeping him there.

Dean’s gaze fell from Sam’s stupidly long hair to his back and traveled across the cheap carpeting to his own hand. The bottle of liquor was slightly blurred, fuzzy with the alcohol he had already consumed before bringing home his bounty. “…but today’s Saturday.” Dean stated dumbly, his mind slowly wrapping around the situation. His little brother was planning on leaving this life behind and not looking back and all Dean was able to manage was something resembling the living dead. Something heavy in the pit of his gut developed and if he’d been sober he would have realized it was guilt and regret.

The younger Winchester sighed loudly; hand dropping from the knob and his belongings littered the floor at his feet. He opened his mouth to say something, his eyes trying to find Dean’s as they darted over their living quarters looking for the answer he was seeking but both of there thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of John approaching the front door.

Sam attempted to clear his things out of they way but by the time the door swung open his efforts were useless. He suddenly felt like he was six years old again, caught in the middle of his own mess of finger paints, his face white hot in anticipation of a tongue lashing.

Their father made his grand appearance, looking from the mess at Sam’s shoes to Dean’s awkwardly placed stance. He blinked in his drunken stupor and Sam’s nose instinctively wrinkled in the stench of their dad. Sam didn’t know how his life got so complicated. His brother and dad both showing up half dead to wish him well at college is almost laughable. It’s a very Winchester way of doing things and Sam honestly hadn’t expecting anything more. Well, maybe from Dean. He expected more from his brother because he was meant to be learning and following suit.

“What’s going on here, boy?” John asked Sam, his eyes muddy and heavy with booze. His breath was stale on Sam’s face and Sam made a point of leaning out of his direct line of sight.

At this point he was just happy the two of them are together so he didn’t have to present his five year plan twice. “I’m going to school. You know… college? I got accepted Stanford and I thought why the hell not?” Sam stated pointedly, his tone much more sarcastic than Dean ever thought possible coming from Sam.

It was Dean’s turn to be interrupted by John, opening his mouth to respond just before John’s booming authoritative voice overpowered much else. “You what?” John questioned, rubbing his face with his palm in an attempt to sober up. “I thought we talked about this? You’re not goin’ to some school Sam. Don’t be stupid.”

This caused Sam’s blood to boil, bubbling under the surface dangerously. His hands clenched and unclenched into fists, as if trying to decide if he could brave a punch. “No, you decided that for me and I had other plans. I’m going to school and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Dean watched the drama unfold before him. The actions of his small family and forced the alcohol from his brain, causing him to see a little clearer. This was wrong, all wrong. “Dad,” he began, taking the steps necessary to close the gap between his father and himself. “Sam wants to go to school and –“

“Don’t you get into this now, Dean. This is between me and your brother. He thinks he’s old enough to make his own decisions then he can fight his own battles.” John said aggressively, putting out his arm to hold Dean off. Then his eye moved from Dean’s face to Sam’s, wetting his lips before continuing the conversation. “You want to be a man on your own, Sam? Then go but don’t you dare think you can come limping back here when you get your ass kicked –”

“Dad!” Dean interjected, no longer heeding to John’s warning. It was pointless; however, because Sam was already gathering up everything he ever owned into his arms again, gladly taking on the fate he’d been dealt.

“That was the plan, yeah. Never see your sorry excuse for a human being again.” Sam stated boldly, his eyes darting quickly to Dean’s face as he stared down his own father. This was getting bad; to the point whatever happened after this would change their lives forever.

John’s anger was peaking, the vein in his forehead protruding from his head. “Get the hell out of my house, Samuel.” With his command he pointed for the front door, still sitting ajar. The alcohol was speaking for him but the damage had long since been done. His face was red with rage, boring holes in his son’s chest with his eyes.

“I’ll be glad to, John.” Sam rebutted, narrowing his eyes as his eyebrows knitted together. The use of the man’s first name instead of his earned title made Dean’s jaw hang unattractively in shock. Finally, the two duffels and backpack are again hugging his sides and he gives Dean one more pleading stare before doing as he was told.

John stalked off deeper into the house, Dean well aware of his destination of his bedroom to crash and sleep off his booze before the cycle began all over again. Sam was already down the front steps, his sneakers crunching in the loose gravel of the driveway. Dean was stuck between a rock and a hard place, forced to choose between coddling his father and trying to change his brother’s mind. In the end, Dean would always choose Sam. He was trained to make the decision in just this way.

“Sam, wait up!” he yelled out the door, scrambling to drop off his liquor before trailing along behind his younger brother. When Dean’s boots made contact in the gravel, Sam stopped abruptly and made an about face. The sudden change in direction caught a tipsy Dean off guard and his breaks stalled, causing him to slide in the rocks before coming to an awkward stop. “You’re really going, then? I mean… for good?” Dean asked, swallowing hard.

The most brain dead, clueless big brother award would have been awarded to Dean in that moment if he hadn’t already clobbered the competition seventeen years running. “No Dean, I just thought that pissing Dad off like that would be fun.” He spat, using that teenage sarcasm again that made Dean almost want to punch a newborn baby. Almost.

Dean’s glaring stare matched Sam’s now, his brow stitched together in frustration. “Hey, I’m not the enemy here Sam. Don’t bite my head off because you’re mad at Dad. I stood up for you.”

“Actually, no… You didn’t Dean. You attempted and it was a good start but Dad said the command and you stopped in your place like the good dog you are.” Sam said angrily, immediately regretting his words the second they fell off his tongue.

“Fuck you, dude. I’m not a god damn dog.” Dean responded harshly, matching Sam’s tone and feeling the need to one up him. “You know that situation was a lost cause and shoving my way into it would’ve only made it worse for you.”

Sam’s expression softened, adjusting the bag dangling precariously on his on his shoulder. Dean automatically reached out and took it for him, slinging it over his own. “I… thanks,” Sam began, his tone gentle and hushed. “I know, okay? I know it was going to end up this way and I’m not mad.” He replied, something resembling a smile appearing on his face.

“S’okay Sammy,” Dean said, the tiniest of smirks playing on his own. “I won’t hold the bitch fit against you.” With that, the grin spread wide, a small laugh breaking the tension between them.

Sam couldn’t help but laugh in return, the theoretical weight on his shoulders lessening. “Yeah, thanks Dean.” He said through a laugh, his fingers tightening on the strap of his pack. For a moment he studied his brother’s eyes, still somewhat floating from intoxication but it wasn’t anywhere close to John’s drowning gaze. Sam cleared his throat, blinking twice out of the unfocused stare he had on his brother’s face. “Come with me.”

The words were neither a question nor a request. They were merely stated, as if doing anything other than said command was ludicrous. It had also come out of nowhere and Dean was knocked on his ass. He suddenly was reminded of all of the moments they’d shared. Some are innocent and others not so much. His little brother asking if his fucked up older brother would tag along to college like the dog he was accused of being. Dean’s emotions for his brother far surpassed that any one sibling should have for one another but at the time Dean didn’t care. It was different when they only had the other rely on, just the two of them against the big bad world. Now, however, he felt like the world’s biggest screw up. Dean was the older brother meant to protect his little brother from the evils of the world and instead he brought them right to Sam’s front door. Well, if you wanted to get technical, it was actually his back, but right now the terminology really didn’t matter.

Dean’s gaze fell from Sam’s, landing somewhere between the younger’s kneecaps and his Converse. He could physically feel Sam’s spirits sinking and Dean suddenly felt like he was going to vomit. Sam shouldn’t feel this way about Dean. It was wrong and immoral, not to mention probably illegal in most countries. A lazy, solemn smile spread over Dean’s face and Sam’s expression shattered.

“You’re going to stay, aren’t you, with Dad?” He asked, his voice dropping into a timid growl. Sam felt betrayed at the deepest, most fucked up level possible. Sam had given everything to Dean. Everything, and now that Sam were making such a simple request of his brother after that he was having a rough time processing the word no. No teenage boy dealt with rejection well. Sam felt like his insides were tying in knots on top of knots and now his stomach was turning uneasily.

Dean wet his lips, that same sarcastic grin masking his emotions perfectly. He’d mastered his signature smirk from a very early age but that also meant Sam had plenty of time to develop x-ray vision to see right through his brother’s crap. “Sammy, what would I do in California?” Dean asked, as if that one rhetorical question explained everything Sam desperately needed to know. Dean’s throat was swelling up, absent tears gathering in his chest. Reality was Dean would love to follow along in Sam’s footsteps, which would be a good change of pace, and spend a couple years in California. Dean wanted to tag along so bad he could taste it but this was the only way Sam could be normal. Leave this messed up existence behind and forget all about him and his wickedness.

Sam didn’t reply verbally but made his point loud and clear by jerking his third bag from Dean’s clutches and hoisting it over his shoulder again. His gaze was now cold, controlled and emotionless. They were judging Dean. He could feel it in his bones and couldn’t do a damn thing about it other than stand there and take it like a man. What he wanted to do was wrap his hand around the back of Sam’s slender neck and squeeze gently. Hell, maybe even pull him in for a proper goodbye but leaving Sam with something so hopeful was cruel.

Fuming, Sam finally gathered his bearings and threw a whopper of a response back in his brother’s face. “After all we’ve been through you’re going to choose that fuck up over me. After I… and you… and we…” he began, voice trailing off midsentence but Dean knew where he was going. Dean even winced when Sam’s voice trailed off. “How do you think that makes me feel, huh Dean?” His brother’s name on his tongue was bittersweet. Both consisting of a fond memory of his favorite pastime but also that ugly truth that lurked in the shadows. This was the last time Sam was going to see of Dean for a long time and there was a real possibility it’s permanent and all Dean was doing was standing there and letting it happen.

As much as it tore at his insides, Dean gave Sam an unwavering shrug. The classic, ‘I don’t give a damn’ persona Dean used to hide himself from everyone. It took ever ounce of strength to look him dead in the eye and sell his point. This whole thing hindered on Sam believing that Dean was really only in this whole mess for a good time and an easy lay when it was anything but. His heart was literally breaking before Sam’s very eyes but he didn’t let a smidgeon of that leak for Sam to witness. “Send me a postcard?” he asked hopefully, too cheerful for anyone deem acceptable from Dean Winchester.

“Fuck you.” Sam threw at him. The words struck Dean like a thousand knives, stabbing at every inch of his ultimately fallible human body. Sam made to throw a punch aimed at Dean’s face but at the last second changed his mind and shoved him backward instead. Dean’s boots shifted unsteadily in the loose gravel, momentarily losing his balance. By the time Dean steadied himself again Sam was stalking off down the driveway on foot.

Dean ran his hands through his hair, keeping his palms pressed to the pack of his head as his elbows stuck out to the sides widely. “You want a ride to the –“ he yelled out to his brother, silently hoping his brother would leave him this last act of kindness before walking out of his life forever.

Sam fought the urge to glance over his shoulder, get one last look at his infuriating brother before he rounded the bend in the road but he was stronger than his biggest weakness. Sam merely shook his head, trying his own hand at mocking the lack of emotion. It was a good thing his back was turned because Dean would see the silent tears already cascading on Sam’s cheeks and jaw. “No, I think I can manage, Dean…” he replied stiffly, rounding the corner of trees so Dean couldn’t see him anymore.

“…bus stop.” Dean finished lamely, watching the space Sam once occupied as thought if he wished hard enough Sam would reappear and exclaim this was all just a sick joke. Dean knew it wasn’t, he did, but he couldn’t help that little piece of him who wanted to believe his brother wouldn’t rip himself from his life so easily. He stood there, absently watching his fingers manipulate the hem of his long sleeved T-shirt when he suddenly realized. Sam was sporting Dean’s favorite Led Zeppelin shirt too. “Damn it,” Dean swore under his breath, a heavy sigh escaping his lungs in a deep breath he didn’t know he was holding before heading back into the house, fully intending on finishing his JD tonight.

About month later, Dean got a call from Bobby letting him know a box from Stanford had arrived with Dean’s name on it. After three weeks, four days and a handful of hours (but who was counting?) Dean hadn’t heard a peep from Sam and he was elated to hear that Sam had finally come around to speaking to him, much less sending him something. Upon hearing the news, Dean dropped everything he was doing to race out to Bobby’s farmhouse in South Dakota to see exactly what Sam deemed important enough to mail him without breathing a word to anymore of its departure prior. It didn’t seem like something Sam would do but he didn’t think too hard on it either.

The next day he arrived in Singer Junkyard with a grin plastered to his face he couldn’t help. By now the butterflies in his stomach were unbearable and when he knocked on Bobby’s door out of courtesy before entering he felt like waiting much longer he’d explode.

“Hey there, boy.” Bobby said, glancing up from the gun he was cleaning just long enough to meet Dean’s hopeful gaze.

“Hey Bobby,” Dean said breathlessly, smoothing out the t-shirt he was wearing unnecessarily. The toothy grin on his face paired with the doe eyed expression was enough to inform the older man Dean wasn’t here on a leisurely visit.

“Box is over there.” Bobby gestured, nodding his head toward the kitchen table, seemingly un-phased by Dean’s complete lack of common courtesy, at least for the time being, anyway.

Dean took a deep breath as he strode across the living room and into the kitchen, pulling his pocket knife from the pocket of his jeans, ripping at the packing tape keeping the box closed. When he got it open, he stared the contents of the box for a heart stopping moment before reaching in and pulling out his Zeppelin T-shirt. There was nothing less and definitely nothing more.

Fucking Sam.

It still smelled like him, even after all this time and being shipped across half the country and Dean breathed it in deeply without thinking before a bout of rage filled him. He threw the shirt back in its box and shoved his knife back in his pocket. This was a low blow, even for Sam. He knew exactly what he was doing and he’d be damned if he was going to roll over and take it.

“Everything okay over there Dean?” Bobby asked as his brow rose in concern.

“I… Yeah, it’s fine. I just don’t want it.” Dean replied the same time his fists balled up so tight his knuckles were turning white. His jaw set sharply, his breathing hallowed and erratic. It was taking everything he had not to explode with Bobby as a witness. To him, Sam was only returning an article of clothing that had wound up in his luggage when he left, but to Dean that wasn’t even scraping the surface. Sam knew that and he still sent it. The smug little bastard thought he was being clever. Dean would have been proud if he wasn’t so damn angry.

By then, Bobby had taken his place beside Dean, peering into the box curiously. “…a shirt? Why don’t you want it?” He asked, his tone scraping at Dean’s already rubbed raw skin.

“Yeah, a shirt and I don’t want it.” Dean barely managed before stalking back toward the front door. He needed to get away from Bobby so he could curse Sam’s name and shoot things without raising more suspicion than he already was.

Flabbergasted, Bobby stood in his kitchen staring at the package for a moment before following Dean out to the Impala. “Dean, what am I supposed to do with it then?”

At his question, Dean gave him that signature smirk, the careless ‘I don’t give a damn’ shrug and told him exactly what he could do with Sam’s idea of a joke. “I don’t care, Bobby. Burn it, wear it… send it back to him. I just don’t fuckin’ want it.” Then with that, he got back behind the wheel and slammed the door harder than he really had to before the engine roared to life again.

Bobby stood there watching in shock, utterly lost, as the car’s tires peeled out in the gravel of the lot. Shaking his head, he took off his hat and rubbed his head. “Idjits. Nothing but a bunch of idjits…” He said to himself, waving off the Impala and heading back into the house.


End file.
